On strike
Husband has informed me that I'm not allowed to go to ER for the next week or so. The reason is that the nurses at our "local" are on strike.

Great, for most people their "local" is a nice place to get a drink after work. For me, my "local" is a nice place to get an ER after zarfing for 12 hours.

OK, Husband. I promise to do my best to avoid ER until the nurses come marching home.

In other news I think I've been fired by my acupuncturist. After 2 or 3 really good sessions, a lot more sessions that didn't seem to do anything/much, he's decided that he really can't do anything for me. Boo. He tried something new yesterday and I'm to call him on Monday to report how it worked. Considering that I woke up at 2 am in severe pain and it took 2 vicodin to get me through the next 9 hours, I'd have to say that it didn't. But all is not lost, he shares office space with a massage therapist who is apparently amazing and will refer me to him. Keep your fingers crossed.

Thanks to Mama D for her advice on the Eddie Bauer catalog. I'll check it out. I broke down and dashed into Mervyn's the other day for a new pair of jeans, since I got fed up with having to cinch my old jeans so tight. I bought a size 8 which is still a bit large, but I think they might shrink. Good lord, an 8! I haven't been in single digit clothing since I was in high school -- if then. I looked in the mirror this morning and realize that I've misplaced my butt. If anyone finds it, please put it in the mail. Thanks.

An island of one
Apparently I am the only person in the United States who doesn't need/want to lose weight.

I always knew in the back of my dim mind that the majority of Americans are overweight, but it never really sunk in until I lost weight thanks to the mystery syndrome. Today's doctor's appointment found me tipping the scales at a whopping 119 lbs (and that's wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers!) My doctor gave me the wonderful advice of "eat" and I would love to comply, but I have no appetite and when I do eat, a few bites fills me up. But I'll nibble when I can because I really, really don't want to lose any more weight.

Which puts me firmly in the minority. Turn on the TV and you're bombarded with ads for Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, and some scary thing called "hoodia." Not to mention Low or no fat diet foods. Non-fat yogurt -- indulgence without the guilt. 100 calorie cookie packets -- indulgence without the guilt. (What a unique slogan!)

How ironic to basically have free reign to have cookies if I want -- and yet not want them. Oh the humanity! Many's the day I'd have given anything to know I could have a hot fudge sundae without feeing guilty but now that I can -- well, I just can't.

R.I.P. Paul Scofield
Just a few weeks after watching his Oscar-winning performance in A Man for All Seasons, British actor Paul Scofield has died of leukemia at the age of 86.

I am sad. He's always been one of my favorites. Unfortunately he didn't make many movies, but whenever he appeared on screen he was magic. In his role of the French King in Branagh's Henry V he was a model of subtle power and sadness. There was something so clean about his acting. No frills and yet always believable. I will always regret that I never had the chance to see him on stage.

I drop first, so I don't shop
Thanks to the mystery syndrome, I no longer fit into any of my clothing. Nothing. My jammies fall off me. My jeans have so much extra room I could smuggle something in them. Even my sweats are too big.

I know many people in America would love to have that problem, but the one thing it signifies to me is this: I must go shopping. And oh, how I hate to shop. Bookstores and music stores notwithstanding, the world of retail bores and annoys me. I hate the trying on of clothing. I especially hate how women's clothing is so ridiculously sized compared to men's. Men's clothing, with great logicality, goes by actual measurements. If you know your neck/arm measurement, you can buy a shirt. If you know your waist and inseam, you can buy pants. You might not even have to try things on.

With women's clothing it's a huge crap shoot. Am I a small or medium? A regular or a short? A 10 or a 12? And if I'm a 10 in this line, am I also a 10 in that line? Oh, no, wait, according to this other manufacturer I'm an 8. Everything must be tried on.

I've put off shopping for quite a while now. Firstly because I hate it and secondly because lately I've been too sick to do much of anything except hang around the house all day and envy the cat. But it's gotten to the point where my jeans are riding so low I look like a wanna-be gangsta rapper.

There are a lot of things I'm looking forward to doing when (if?) I get better, but shopping is not high on the list. But, alas, it's probably also the first thing I have to take care of.